Cat's in the Cradle
by Katsu
Summary: A little on Vincent and his relationship with his father.


**Cat's in the Cradle**

"_I think I owe you an apology," Vincent said. "It's been a long time."_

It was afternoon; the kitchen curtains gave the sunlight a slightly orange cast. The kitchen was spotless as always; of the two of them, only Grimoire cooked, and afterwards he cleaned up with the zealous obsession of any true scientist.

"Don't worry about it," Grimoire said. "I'm jut glad you made it home."

Vincent smiled. The trains had been late, and he'd already stayed over at work. The blue suit he wore felt rumpled and ill-used, worn too many hours. He still felt overheated from chasing after an intrude in the early hours of his shift. "It's just a work thing. You don't have to worry."

"Ha. Spoken like someone who isn't a parent," Grimoire said. He smiled, but there was a hint of worry in it. He knew that when ShinRa was involved, 'work things' were rarely so simple. He felt responsible for Vincent working there; he worked there himself, but at least he didn't carry a gun. "What do you want for dinner?" he asked.

Vincent shuffled his feet against the linoleum. "Well... I have to get back to work soon. They need me to do some overtime."

"Oh." Grimoire nodded. "That's alright. I can make it fast. How about noodles?"

Vincent smiled. "That sounds great, dad." Noodles weren't exactly Grimoire's specialty, but that wasn't the point. And it beat yet another dinner bought from a vending machine.

Grimoire pulled a pan from the cabinets with the busy rattle that Vincent always associated with home and food. "Oh, I've started a new project," he said. A package of noodles was pulled from the cabinet, the dry noodles dropping into the pot. "I'm working a bit with another scientist this time. Lovely girl. Her name's Lucrecia."

"Huh."

"I ought to introduce you two some time." The faucet hissed to life as Grimoire filled the pot with water.

Vincent fought the urge to roll his eyes. He hadn't done that since he was fourteen and he wasn't about to start again. At eighteen, he needed to act like the adult he was. "That's not necessary," he said.

"True," Grimoire agreed. "But it never hurts to meet new people."

Vincent shrugged. It wasn't worth arguing over. But sometimes he got the distinct impression that his dad was trying to fill in for his long-dead mother. It was a little weird.

Grimoire put the pt of noodles and turned on the burner. The gas whooshed into flame after a couple of clicks. "Now, white sauce or red?"

The kitchen was filled with the rich smell of beef stew from the large pot bubbling thickly away on the stove. Vincent would have been looking forward to eating it if his stomach hadn't been making slow, anxious turns. The letter that had come that day was folded up in his pocket. It felt strange and stiff against his leg whenever he moved.

Grimoire was wearing an apron. It was keenly embarrassing when he did that. At least it was dark blue, though now frosted with a light dusting of flour and a few dark spatters of broth. His sleeves were rolled to halfway up his forearms, his hands pale with flour as well. "How was school today?" he asked.

"It was okay." Vincent perched on one of the wooden kitchen chairs. "Took my last final."

"How did you do?"

"Okay, I guess," Vincent said. Which was a lie. He'd done terribly, the time ending before he was even halfway done with the questions.

Grimoire smiled at his son. "I was thinking, how about we do a vacation this summer. We'll go on a cruise. I've got the time off saved up."

"Dad..."

"I know, it's probably 'uncool' to spend so much time around your dad, but we aren't going to have many opportunities like this once you're off to University."

"About that..." Vincent cleared his throat, shrinking a little as Grimoire turned to give his son his full attention. Some of the guys in Vincent's class complained that their parents never listened. At times, Vincent felt a little jealous of them.

"What?" Grimoire asked.

"I... don't think I'm going to go to University," Vincent mumbled.

The only sound in the kitchen was the faint hiss of the gas burner and the stew bubbling.

Vincent hunched his shoulders. He didn't like talking that much at the best of times, to anyone. But this was far worse. The letter he'd gotten, a black and white refusal hadn't bothered him or surprised him in the least. This was what had been tying him in knots. He stared down at his shoes. "I was refused entry."

Grimoire's answer was silence.

Vincent's shoulders crept up toward his ears. "My grades were barely good enough, and I did really badly on the entrance exam."

More silence.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you at the time, dad. I just thought... I don't know. I thought maybe it wasn't so bad." His feet twitched, because he was lying. He'd actually been a little relieved, just enough to make him feel like a traitor.

"It's alright, Vincent," Grimoire said. He smiled as Vincent looked up cautiously, though there was something a little sad in the small tilt to his chin. "It's not the end of the world. Don't look so sad."

"I know," Vincent said. "I know, it's just..." There was no way of saying it without sounding like a complete dork.

"It's alright," Grimoire repeated, his smile becoming just a little broader. He reached out to touch Vincent's shoulder, leaving a ghostly hand print behind. "I love you no matter what you do or where you go."

"Dad..."

Grimoire turned his attention back to the dinner. "Do you know what you want to do instead?" he asked.

"Not really," Vincent said. He hadn't thought beyond just trying to follow his father's footsteps. "Maybe if I take a year to study, I can try again."

Grimoire looked over his shoulder. "Is that really what you want to do, or what you think I want you to do?"

Vincent shrugged.

"You're my son no matter what you do," Grimoire said. He set a bowl of fragrant, steaming stew in front of Vincent, and a spoon. "So do what you want. It may be that you weren't meant to be a scientist. Maybe you take after your mother in this. Goodness knows, it'd only be fair, since you take after me in everything else."

"Dad!"

Grimoire grinned. He set down his own bowl, followed by a basked of rolls, and sat. "So what do you want to try out, Vincent?"

"I don't know."

"Well, what's your favorite subject? Your real favorite one."

"I'm best at sports," he said, frowning.

"So maybe you should try something that will use that ability," Grimoire said. "There are plenty of things in life that don't require being cooped up in a lab." He stirred his stew around. "There's an opening in ShinRa's internal security. You could try applying there, just to see what it's like."

Vincent knew that his father worked for ShinRa. So maybe, he could still help out, in a way. "Do I get a gun?" he asked.

Grimoire sighed, though his smile didn't change. "You really are your mother's son," he said.

The kitchen door shut with a bang; Vincent had given it a little help, shoving it with all the might available to an eight-year-old.

Grimoire was there a moment later, a book still in one hand. His eyebrows crept up as he took in his son's flushed face, dirty clothes, and sullen expression. Still, his voice was miled when he spoke. "Did the door do something to you?"

Vincent glared at the linoleum. "Not the door," he muttered.

Grimoire took a napkin out of the holder on the table and used it to mark his place. "Then what, Vincent?"

Vincent shrugged, glaring more fiercely at the floor.

"How about you sit down," Grimoire said, trying to think of what his wife would have done in this situation. She'd always had a time with Vincent than him. Memory, still so fresh that it stung, drew him over to the refrigerator. He took out the light blue carton of milk and filled two glasses. "I think there are some sugar cookies left over from yesterday," he said conversationally.

Some internal tension relaxed slightly, in Vincent. His small body no longer seemed to vibrate with fury, though his hands were still clenched into fists. "I'm not sorry!" he blurted out.

Grimoire had to force himself to keep going as if nothing was wrong, putting cookies on the plat, then carrying it and the milk over to the table. Only have he sat did he say, "About what?"

Vincent pulled out a chair and climbed onto it. He took one of the pale cookies, but broke it in half, scattering crumbs across the table.

"If you tell me, you'll feel better," Grimoire said.

"No I won't!"

"I won't be angry, I promise."

Vincent broke the cookie into smaller pieces. "I was walking home from school."

"Right."

"There was a girl."

Grimoire occasionally despaired that Vincent never seemed to know anyone's name. He was very unsociable, for a child. "Go on."

"These two boys threw rocks at her. And called her names." Vincent seemed to hunch into himself, staring at the pattern of wood grains on the tabletop. "So I hit them. Both of them." He looked up and fixed his glare on his father. "And I'm not sorry!"

Grimoire sighed. He wasn't really certain what to say. He didn't have his wife's knack for words. "You shouldn't hit people," he said. "Violence isn't good. But... I'm not angry. You did the right thing, helping her out. Next time, don't get in a fight."

Vincent shook his head. "I had to."

"Try talking first."

"It doesn't work. It never does."

Grimoire sighed. "How do you know until you've tried?"

Vincent's answer was a glare.

"You should always help peop.e But... ask them to stop first, right?"

"Fine," Vincent said. "But I'll still fight them when they don't listen."

Grimoire would have liked to argue, with that, but he couldn't. "Just make sure you're always the person that stops the bullies, not one of the people that throws the rocks."

Vincent's answer was a look that said, on no uncertain terms, that he thought his father was an idiot. He picked up a cookie and began to eat it. "Mom said that, too," he said. "I remember."

It was always surprising, what Vincent remembered; he'd been so young when his mother had died. But Grimoire smiled, nodding, even as his heart clenched with pain. "You're right," he said. "She did."

The kitchen was full of strangers that day. That was all Vincent remembered, later. Ladies that smelled odd, like flowers that were trying too hard. They picked him up and pinched his cheeks and called him 'poor lamb' and 'little dear.' Their faces were damp and sticky.

At first, he liked the attention, but after a while, it scared him. On young, rubbery legs, he ran to his parents' room. When he was scared at night, he'd crawl into bed between his parents.

But today, there was only one person there – his daddy. He sat on the bed, looking out the window, his fingers plucking at the blue-patterned quilt.

Vincent tugged on Grimoire's pants, wanting to be picked up. He'd never been swept into such a tight hug before. At first, he thought it was fun. Then his daddy's shoulders began to shake, and hot tears fell on his face and hair.

Frightened, Vincent began to cry too.

_Now it was his turn for his shoulders to shake, though no tears fell. He'd lost the knack for tears long ago. "I haven't been to see you in so long," he said. _

_Years of ignoring all the memories, good and bad, to be consumed by the woman that had taken his father from him. He wanted to feel angry about it; he only felt tired. _

"_I'm sorry, dad," he whispered. "I'm so sorry." _

_He had a more important thing to say, though, than a simple apology. He'd also learned a lesson, remembering it in the sights and smells and sounds of a kitchen through the years. _

"_I'm sorry, and I miss you," he said, reaching out to touch the grave marker, "but I think I'm going to be okay." _

_He could almost see his father's ghostly smile, almost hear the whisper - _

"_I'm glad you made it home."_


End file.
